


Relief

by quaffanddoff



Series: Give_Satisfaction [13]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Desperation, Drunken Shenanigans, Golden shower, M/M, Masturbation, Omorashi, POV Jeeves, Sexual Fantasy, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21829564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quaffanddoff/pseuds/quaffanddoff
Summary: Bertie is desperate for relief; Jeeves, greatly moved, takes a huge risk.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Series: Give_Satisfaction [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561192
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	Relief

My first surprise of the evening was running into Mr. Wooster unexpectedly in a speakeasy; my second was the police raid that took place not long after I arrived; and my third—well, the third was a different kind of surprise altogether.

We had come to the same speakeasy coincidentally, with entirely different sets of compatriots, of course. Mr. Wooster had already been there for several hours when I arrived. There was something a little surreal about stumbling upon him that way. We had once before glimpsed each other out on the town, back when I was taking notes on the New York City nightlife for Mr. Rockmetteller Todd. That time, in that lively cabaret, Mr. Wooster had looked different to me, somehow. In the fraction of a second between seeing him and recognizing him, I perceived him as if he were a stranger: an anonymous, tall, lean young man, surrounded by friends, exceptionally well-groomed and well-dressed (but of course I liked how he was dressed—it was I who had dressed him, after all). In that moment, I was struck by his good looks; seeing him every day as I did in the context of employer and employee, I didn’t think about him that way, so I wasn’t looking for it, so I didn’t notice it. But here, with no duty to uphold, no obligation to attend to him, I found that my attention was still drawn to him anyway. If I hadn’t known him, I would have wanted to go over and get to know him. 

Then, that brief moment of non-recognition was over, and he appeared to me once more as he usually does. We had pretended not to notice each other that prior night in the cabaret and had never acknowledged the near run-in. Nevertheless, ever since that night, some piece of that brief, unfamiliar vision had remained with me. It was a reminder of how even those you know most intimately have sides that you never see.

On this night of surprises in the speakeasy, I experienced a similar kind of fleeting disorientation upon spotting him. This time, we happened to notice each other at the same moment, making direct eye contact, so we could not pretend we were unaware. He simply gave me a smile and a nod from across the room; he must have figured that the last thing a working man wants on his night off is to be unexpectedly accosted by his employer. I appreciated his thoughtfulness in not wanting to impose, but I decided to go over and say a fond hello. He seemed rather delighted by my approach. 

I could tell that Mr. Wooster had already had a few drinks, and as we talked, we both had a few more. We got rather caught up in conversation, which I had not anticipated. In my professional capacity, I always err on the side of reticence, but tonight I found myself talking more than I ever had in front of him, and quite animatedly, too. It seemed we related in a whole different way when I was off the clock. 

The illegal nature of the setting was another contributing factor to our new rapport: the disparities between the lives of the haves and the have-nots may be numerous, but behind the doors of these temperance-defying establishments, one can expect to rub elbows with people of all different stripes. Every patron is flaunting the same law, a shared risk which makes the speakeasy a great social equalizer. This breakdown of the social order is what makes them at once so vulgar _and_ so fashionable.

Even though it was quite improper, it was oddly gratifying to feel that he respected me as a peer. I found it flattering how he gave me his undivided attention and paid no heed to the friends he had come with, who drifted off gradually as time wore on. Likewise, I was unconcerned about returning to my companions, although I wondered what they must think about our unseemly behavior. 

Eventually, he excused himself to the restroom, but had only taken a few steps when the shrill sound of a whistle cut through the sounds of music, chatter, and general revelry. Instantly, the music ceased and the crowd scattered. The Prohibition laws were inconsistently enforced, but it was highly advisable to avoid getting caught if at all possible. Startled, Mr. Wooster froze; I grabbed hold of his arm and we ran.

Owing to the layout of the speakeasy and the sudden swarming of policemen, it was impossible for us to reach either the entrance or the back exit through which many patrons fled, but we were able to scramble quickly into a concealed spot under a table. We huddled there together, side by side. The table was in a corner alcove that was somewhat isolated from the rest of the club. As long as we stayed tolerably still and didn’t make much noise, we had a good chance of being overlooked.

The voices and footsteps of policemen patrolling about echoed through the club. The lighting was dim, even more so under this table. I could see Mr. Wooster crouched next to me in the darkness if I turned my head, but if I looked straight ahead into the main room, I couldn’t make out much. We peered out into the gloom, waiting for a sign that the police had finished their raid.

“Rum sit., this, isn’t it?” Mr. Wooster whispered. He turned his head to speak to me, and due to our proximity, I felt his breath on my cheek. It made me shiver a bit.

“Indeed, sir,” I murmured. 

The man is not known for his sangfroid in the best of circumstances; here, the adrenaline and nerves had him even more restless than usual. Before long, I could feel him fidgeting anxiously.

“Try to relax if you can, sir. We should be fine.”

“Oh yes, I’m not terribly worried about that. I just…” he sighed dolefully. “I was about to, er, make use of the facilities before this all happened, and I _really_ do wish I had gotten the chance.”

I gulped. I was afraid he would say something like that. 

You see, I lead a modest, chaste lifestyle. Although I have in the past had some involvement with a few suitable people, I have neither the time nor the inclination to seek out much in the way of intimate activity these days. Forgive me for discussing such delicate matters so frankly, but abstinence does not mean I don’t feel the urge; on the contrary, I believe I feel it all the more keenly. When there is an excess of desire but a dearth of opportunity, that desire sometimes expresses itself in odd ways. Breath on one’s cheek makes one shiver, as a completely arbitrary example. One takes notice of subtle reactions in others. One feels entranced by small things that most would generally consider to be unrelated to sensual pursuits. There is one such quirk that has especially affected me, something impossible to discuss in polite company for many reasons, and his words had triggered it instantly.

This quirk of mine has made itself known in relation to Mr. Wooster a few times, but never to this advanced degree. In many ways, this was the utmost culmination of my proclivity, the realization of my fantasies.

Our hiding spot wasn’t far from the restrooms, but there was absolutely nothing to conceal someone venturing from one place to the other. We could still hear policemen systematically arresting patrons not far from where we hid; Mr. Wooster would certainly be apprehended if he tried to make a run for it.

I knew he must be suffering. His heart must be pounding, his breathing labored. I knew his flat stomach must be rigid. His innermost muscles must be contracting, resisting the pressure, putting off the inevitable for now but not forever. 

I was sitting on the floor with my back to the wall, my elbows resting upon my bent knees. I casually let a hand drop between my legs to rest lightly on my crotch. My thigh would hide the motion from Mr. Wooster. I knew this was madness, but I simply couldn’t control myself. So close was he to me that I fancied I could feel his distress and embarrassment radiating off him in palpable waves. I felt him quiver in discomfort. I risked a gentle stroke of the front of my trousers. The stirring beneath my hand was just in beginning stages but it would not stay that way for long. I did not know what I was going to do when it advanced, and at that moment, I really did not care.

I peeked at Mr. Wooster. He was still staring straight ahead, rocking slightly. I grew bolder with my touch and had to stifle a moan of repressed delight. It was so sinful, so wrong to be doing this next to him— _right_ next to him. That thought itself roused me further. Quite a dangerous feedback loop was forming.

“D’you think they’ve gone?” he whispered. As if in answer, we heard heavy footsteps pass by, closer than ever. He let out of a quiet whine of disappointment, and the soft sound did more to harden me than anything my hand could possibly do. His pitiful tone inspired sympathy in me, yes, but also irrepressible lust.

With a furtive glance at him, I took a chance and slipped my hand inside my trousers.

If he were to look over at me in the darkness, he would be able to tell that my hand was in the general region between my legs, but could not see that it had disappeared into my clothing, and I could still pass it off as a casual sitting position. I turned my grunt of pleasure into a quiet cough as smoothly as I could. I caressed my heated length, rubbing my palm up and down it, not yet grasping, just petting. 

The risk of getting caught had my adrenaline surging. The physical sensation was rather overwhelming, but mentally, I felt like I was flying. I was keyed up and ready to yank my hand back if I had to, run if I had to. I even had the wild thought that I would fight off a policeman if I had to.

It occurred to me then that, as speakeasies are known for their illicit goods rather than their fastidious hygiene, my hand couldn’t exactly be considered clean. Normally, this would have disgusted me and stopped me from proceeding any further. But tonight was a different sort of night. In many different senses, it was a night to embrace repugnance, to luxuriate in depravity. Shamefully enough, my prick leaked at the very thought. My hand’s continuous motion spread the slickness all over.

All this time, my attention was trained on my tortured master. Just from the look on his face I could read his agitation. I knew the bulge in his belly must be making him feel filled up, on the brink of bursting. He was letting out small sighs of displeasure at random intervals. As we waited, he stretched out his legs in front of him, even though his feet now stuck out from under the table. He must know this would make us marginally more likely to be caught, but apparently the risk was worth it to him for the modicum of relief it would give him.

“Jeeves,” he said eventually, his voice strained, “I find myself stuck between a rock and a hard thingummy.”

“How so, sir?” I said, managing to keep my own voice normal.

“On one hand, I don’t want to get arrested. I already had to pay Stilton Cheesewright’s uncle ten blasted quid for the last time I was caught up in one of these raids, and I haven’t forgotten the sting of that. But on the other hand, I can’t do this forever. I don’t want to…ah…I certainly can’t…here, you know, in front of you.”

I murmured sympathetically.

“It’s bally anguish, though.”

“I am sorry to hear that, sir.”

“I know this isn’t exactly proper, old fruit, but would you excuse the young master’s imperti-whatsit for a moment?”

“Of course, sir,” I said, although I didn’t know what I was excusing. 

As I watched, Mr. Wooster then pressed a hand to his crotch with a groan. I couldn’t help but stare. I had never seen him grab at himself this way. Even though I was currently doing an even more intimate, inappropriate version of the same thing, I still flushed at the sight of him clutching himself so firmly. Something about seeing his fingers curl around his most private parts flustered me greatly.

“Great Scott…” he moaned. “When we’re free I’m probably going to be at the urinal for a dashed eternity.”

As you can imagine, this frank talk did little to improve my flustered state. “Shouldn’t be much longer now, sir,” I said—a hollow assurance, since I of course had no clue how long it would be.

“Oh Lord, I hope so. I can’t wait much longer. It’s going to feel _so_ bloody good…”

I felt my traitorous body react ardently to his cursing and moaning.

He bent his knees again, placing his feet flat on the floor. I tried not to stare at him this time, pretending instead to look intently ahead. In my peripheral vision, I saw him glance surreptitiously at me, then position himself in a similar way to how I was sitting. And then, unless I was much mistaken, I saw his hand slip into a similar position to where mine now was.

It was deliciously mortifying to reflect on the scene: my master and I, huddling together, so close that our knees were actually touching, each with his hand groping himself inside his trousers. Very different reasons drove us—lust for me, desperation for him—but somehow that only made it even more arousing to me.

For the first time, I felt that I could actually come off if I chose to. It wasn’t inevitable yet, but I suddenly could tell that it was an option. That hadn’t been my intention this whole time; I had just been following an impulse, not working toward a goal. Mr. Wooster wasn’t fondling himself, just keeping a tight static grip, trying his hardest to maintain control. By contrast, my hand had been stroking steadily for several minutes now, at a slower speed than I would normally employ for this activity so as to remain discreet. That moment where idle, non-productive touching could transition into an uphill climb toward climax had snuck up on me.

But—no, that would be preposterous. As magnificent as the idea was of each of us deciding to let go, giving each other permission to finish, finding our different versions of release right here, right next to each other, perhaps simultaneously, or perhaps instead taking turns, so each could have his chance to show off and his chance to watch…as marvelous as that would assuredly be, I needed to banish such lewd thoughts from my intentions and relegate them to the safe realm of private fantasy.

For that, I needed to stop touching myself. But that was easier in theory than in practice. This instinctive, reflexive process is inertial; the closer you are to the end, the harder it is to stop. I just had to gather my willpower and simply resolve to—

“That’s it, I’m going to the restroom,” Mr. Wooster declared, beginning to stand up. 

I swiftly pulled my hand off my prick and grabbed his free wrist, holding him in place. “No, sir! Remember how much trouble it caused when the word got out that you had been caught in that raid last time?”

“I don’t care, Jeeves!” he burst out, his voice cracking. “I mean, I do, but I-I have no choice!” 

“Shhh. You’re doing so well, sir, just hold on,” I encouraged him. 

"I can't—I don't know—" 

“If you can’t hold on, it’s okay. Accidents happen, sir.” 

“What?! How could you even suggest—?" 

"It's okay." 

"No!” He wrenched his wrist from me and scrambled out from under the table. I watched his progress as far as he was still visible, but his form disappeared into the dimness soon enough. I listened intently and didn’t hear any sign that he had been spotted; maybe he would get away with this after all.

Imagining the relief he was soon to experience made me feel profoundly jealous. I also felt intensely stirred. I knew that if I was going to relinquish my self-control and make this foolish choice, I had only a few moments.

My hand slipped back into my trousers and I picked up a much quicker pace than previously. My head fell back and I closed my eyes; there was nothing to see here in this darkness anyway. 

Now I was free to picture Mr. Wooster yanking his trousers open, reaching in, freeing his cock. His hand gripping it, trembling with anticipation. I envisioned him not in the bathroom, but back here under the table, in front of me, kneeling between my feet. I imagined him grasping my knee, spreading my legs apart, and leaning over me. In my mind, he took careful aim and, with a shuddering sigh, directed his steady stream right to where my hand was furiously pumping. I would gasp and gape in disbelief as the wetness spread down to my skin. He would stare down at me as my hand, prick, trousers, and lap became copiously soaked. My slick hand would move even faster. All the while, the rapturous expression on his face would reveal him to be as stunned and stimulated by the proceedings as I was.

Back in reality, my breathing ceased. The tension gathered within me, crested, and broke. My release swept through me in a series of strong, rhythmic pulses. I held on and grunted through the ecstasy as quietly as possible.

I had barely a moment to come back to earth before I heard footsteps. In fact, the last throbs of pleasure were still being wrung from me as Mr. Wooster appeared and ducked back under the table. I didn’t dare extract my hand, which would surely bear unspeakable evidence. I angled my leg and hunched slightly in order to obscure myself. 

“The coast is clear!” he said. “We can sneak out the back.”

As he spoke, I could still feel a twitching aftershock or two ebb through me. “Excellent news, sir. Lead the way,” I said as calmly as possible, making to stand up and hoping he would turn away. 

“Need a hand up, old thing?” he offered instead.

“No—thank you, sir.” I surreptitiously wiped off my hand as best I could as I pulled it free and emerged from under the table.

Mr. Wooster had a funny look on his face, like maybe he had caught a glimpse of something and was puzzling out exactly what it was that he had seen. “Do you, er, have to go, too, Jeeves?”

“I’m fine, sir,” I said curtly. “I trust you’re feeling better now?”

“Ohh, loads,” he sighed contentedly. “You can’t imagine the relief I feel.”

“No, sir. I'm certain I cannot."


End file.
